


the distance between us

by ishgard



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Friends to something else, Galactic Cowboys Making Bad Decisions, M/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 09:09:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17936939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishgard/pseuds/ishgard
Summary: “What,” Drifter asks thickly, “why,” and he’s kissed again, feels his heart get kicked into orbit, “now?”“Now.” The word is ground out: hungry, intentional, non-negotiable.“I’m in the middle of --”“So keep going,” the Renegade shoots back.---Drifter runs Gambit, and the Renegade runs him.





	the distance between us

**Author's Note:**

> this was written a while back for the [d2 kinkmeme](https://leviathanbathhouse.dreamwidth.org/265.html?thread=8713#cmt8713)! prompt: shin malphur distracting drifter during a match. this was a personal challenge to me to see if i could write something below 8k. i... i did it. i did it folks

Drifter doesn’t get crushes. He gets short-lived fixations. Distractions. He thinks about a Lightbearer for a few days, a week or two at most, and that’s it. He almost never fucks his fixations, either -- it gives ‘em power, gives ‘em the opportunity to see him crawling back for another go. He prefers flings with people he won’t ever see again. That one Iron Lord, for example: great in the sack, even better that he’s dead. His fireteam that froze to death or got eaten on the ice planet. The Warlock from -- well, you get the idea. 

His latest fixation on The Renegade from Who-The-Fuck-Knows has been running for a little over two months now, but that’s fine. Drifter chalks it up to the man being a mystery that’s begging to be solved while trying to stop you from solving it at all costs. And while it’s a tasty paradox that Drifter usually likes to sink his teeth into, he resists. He’s too busy running the enemies of humanity into the ground with his favorite Lights and dodging Security Frames that ask for his identification. 

And despite all the rumors about him being a hedonist, he’s pretty good at denying himself. 

“I don’t get it,” the Renegade tells him one day outta nowhere, sounding genuinely bewildered. 

_Someone call the Vanguard_ , Drifter thinks sardonically, picking apart an old gun to mold it into something better. _Punk acts like he knows everything_. 

His companion looks up from the journal he’s always scribblin’ away in. “You got all these Lightbearers knockin’ down your gate to be your best friend. You got enough money to buy yourself a loft in the Peregrine District. You got that… artifact. But you ain’t doing shit about it.” 

“Sometimes it’s enough just to have somethin’,” Drifter explains. He glances over his shoulder at the Renegade, wondering what expression he’s wearing beyond the helmet. Somehow, he knows he wouldn’t like it. “You know?”

(It’s only partially a lie, of course; some of the Motes have been going to his ship’s new cloaking system and gear for the crew he’s setting up. But that’s his business.)

The Renegade mumbles, so soft he almost misses it, “I know.”

  


* * *

  


They work well together, Renegade and Drifter; they tour the outer, exchange vague stories, and kill a bunch of shit. It’s nice not having to constantly watch his own back, and their partnership is the closest thing to true camaraderie he’s had since… hell, he can’t even remember. Callum and his ilk don’t count. 

And it could’ve stayed that way -- partners in occasional crime -- except he starts noticing things that don’t matter. Like how the Renegade laughs sometimes, low and raspy, like he ain’t used to it. Or how he falls asleep in odd places, tucked underneath carts and behind crates full of auto rifle magazines. Even his refusal to take off his helmet in mundane situations is charming, if a little frustrating at times. 

Then Drifter gets soft as they’re prowling ‘round Nessus and yanks his pal out of the way of a rampaging Minotaur. It’s stupid on multiple levels, not just because he gets stomped instead and thrown into a pool of Vex milk, but because death ain’t a big deal to the Renegade. Fella goes in guns a-blazin’ like the devil’s on his heels and he’s got nothin’ to lose. He wouldn’t do the same for Drifter, and Drifter would laugh in his face if he did. 

Drifter materializes on solid ground with the Renegade peering down at him, featureless mask mirroring the irritation on his face. “Thanks,” his pal says carefully, like the word don’t sit right in his mouth. 

“Don’t mention it. Ever.” His face burns like he’s still melting to death by radioactive sludge. 

That’s when he realizes he needs a new distraction, and soon.

  


* * *

  


When the Renegade catches wind of a special Gambit weekend Drifter’s planning, he insists on tagging along. Drifter’s carefully perfected, customer service face says _yeah, yeah, sure, pal. I’m flattered you wanna listen to me for the next three days_. Internally, though? He’s screaming bloody murder. The whole inspiration for this weekend was getting the fuck away from the Renegade and raking in extra Motes. He can still do the latter, but the former’s now out of the question.

It doesn’t occur to him to just tell the guy to screw off. With only a small amount of grumbling to his Ghost, they both agree that the extra help will come in handy. 

Friday goes by just fine. The Renegade stays behind the scenes, inspects the banks, the portals, and all the technical bullshit that Drifter hates doing himself. He debates saying thank you, and thinks better of it.

Three quarters of the way through Saturday night’s matches, Drifter’s going hoarse and has stiff knees from strutting around so much, preparing the ready room. He refuses to shoot himself and have his Ghost reset him, though. (Kids these days.)

Instead, he decides to take the rest of the night easy by skipping his little introduction to every team and having the ship AI announce where and who they’ll be fighting. He isn’t totally out of the game, though -- he’s setting up in the server room with a bunch of screens detailing shots of the arena, and will continue to crow at his Guardians to kill everything and each other. This is just to speed up the process a bit, because his queues are constantly filling up, and he wants to squeeze as many Motes as he can in as little time as he can. _Work smarter, not harder_ , that’s what his mama always said.

The Renegade stalks after him into the dark server room, quiet as a mouse, but the Drifter knows the guy would rather be the cat. He toes out of his boots and reclines on the old beaten couch, sighing at how good it feels to be off his feet for a couple of hours. He pretends to not hear the creaking of his joints as he sits and waves a careless arm for the Renegade to join him. “This’ll be good. The first three matches got teams that're always in here.” 

“You ain’t bored of ‘em yet?” The Renegade plops down next to him, and Drifter is glad that his stomach behaves itself at their proximity. Maybe he’ll be kinder to it the next time he ventures out onto an unknown planet.

He smirks. “ _Hell_ no. It’ll be fun to see who wins this time. Just watch.” 

Between rounds two and three of the first match, Drifter gets up to grab a couple of beers. He always offers the Renegade a drink when they’re just sitting together, just ‘cause it’s polite; he knows the man won’t take his helmet off for nothing. It’s something like a joke between the two of them at this point. They lazily toast each other. 

Drifter’s so engrossed in egging on one of his favorite Guardians to hunt a high-value target that he misses the soft hiss at his side. When he reclines again to take a sip of his drink, he pauses at the open car of beer next to his. Then he looks over at the Renegade, whose… unmasked... gaze… is locked on a different screen following an invader. 

Drifter’s brain is presented with something it struggles to comprehend, and finds itself stuck on two main points:

One: The fella’s gruff voice does _not_ match up with what Drifter had in mind, save for the stubble and dark hair.

Two: From what Drifter can tell by the profile alone, the Renegade’s got a young face, honest and open like the protagonist on the cover of some shitty novel Drifter read way back when. Guy’s _real_ handsome, if he were pressed to say it. Since he isn’t, he repeats it to himself with some dismay. 

Once he’s had his proper fill looking, Drifter turns his wandering attention back to his screen, curious to see who’ll summon their Primeval first. His bet’s on Alpha Team; their sniper is a son of a bitch, and has shut down every attempt on his team’s life. Drifter could use a guy like him. Maybe he’ll reach out.

At his side, the Renegade asks, “What’s so funny?” 

“Huh?”

The question catches him off-guard, but it’s a good excuse to look at his pal again. It’s also a novelty to see his eyes for once. They’re a light brown, Drifter notes. Warm. Remind him a bit of this fine copper he saw at --

“You’re smilin’.” Suspicion’s laced in the Renegade’s tone like Drifter’s planning something nefarious. Sadly, he isn’t at the moment, unless you count his entire operation. "What's funny, huh?"

“I ain’t laughin’,” Drifter insists. He takes a swig of beer and raises his brows at his pal, who drops it instead of pressing.

  


* * *

  


_“I’m sorry, were they sayin’ something? ‘Cause they’re_ dead _now!”_

“You’re really into this,” the Renegade mutters, grabbing Drifter’s belt and tugging him back to the couch like he’s embarrassed. 

Drifter remains where he’s standing for a few seconds longer as he swiftly pumps the air with his fist and shoots the Renegade a manic grin. “You saw her, right? Didn’t draw her gun once. Just cornered that guy and whaled on him with her fists.”

“Hmph,” is the impressively unimpressed reply. The Renegade sounds real disgruntled about it, in fact. Like this Titan broke into his house and spat on his Ghost. Drifter doesn’t understand where the grumpiness comes from, but it sure is hilarious.

He sits back down and offers, real matter-of-fact, “You know, ‘steada bein’ an asshole about it, you could go down there and show these kids a hero from the Dark Age.” 

The silence that stretches on after he speaks is chillier than the hunk of ice drifting behind _The Derelict_. Then Renegade speaks again, with an eerie quietness that rings in Drifter’s ears: “I never told you I lived through the Dark Age.”

Drifter doesn’t look away from the match, too absorbed in the Lights’ antics to explain something so esoteric. He rolls his eyes. Cute face, no brains. “You don’t gotta. It’s written all over you.”

The Renegade quits his moody act right then, and looks at him puzzled, intrigued enough by Drifter’s decision to mute the match that he listens without interruption. “You and me, pal?” the Drifter continues, uncharacteristically serious. He takes his friend by the shoulder, shakes him a little. “We both fell on hard times, I know that. Went through hell, lost pieces of ourselves when we came back out. Y’ain’t gotta tell me specifics. And you can say the same goes for all Lightbearers, sure, but I feel a kinship with you that goes beyond just sharin’ a curse or a blessing or whatever the fuck you wanna call it. Think it was fate that you and I got to know each other. Yeah?”

The flurry of emotions that shoot across the Renegade’s wide-eyed, reddening face take all kinda forms: bewilderment, fear, anger, amusement, and -- unless Drifter’s going senile in his old age -- something real soft and vulnerable. Something that doesn’t belong on the face of a stone-cold Hunter. 

Then the Renegade mimics him, grips his shoulder and declares, “You’re so full of shit, man.” 

Drifter cracks up. They both do, relieved they’re on the same page as far as feelings go. 

(It’d be later, much, much later after the fact that Drifter looks back and recalls an edge to the Renegade’s laughter that wasn’t merriment.) 

“Yet you keep comin’ back for more,” Drifter replies wisely once he’s mostly calmed down. He unmutes the match and immerses himself in his Gambit once again. 

The reply is belated, like it took some internal negotiating until the Renegade was positive it was worth saying. The couch dips as the Renegade’s body slouches heavily against Drifter’s side. 

The latter blinks at the game, thinking the guy passed out; he’s in the middle of dictating the next round, not tearing his eyes away even as he feels one of his earpieces being removed. And then a gloved hand slips between his thighs, and the warm breath of the Renegade spills against the shell of his ear: “You’re right. Though it sure ain’t for Gambit.” 

Drifter turns his head quickly, startled, and is kissed so roughly he’s afraid the noise that came out of his mouth will echo back to his players.

“What,” Drifter asks thickly, “why,” and he’s kissed again, feels his heart get kicked into orbit, “now?” 

“Now.” The word is ground out: hungry, intentional, non-negotiable. 

“I’m in the middle of --” 

“So keep going,” the Renegade shoots back. He buries his face in Drifter’s neck, peppering the sensitive skin there with kisses. He then massages his thigh and coaxes his legs apart so he can get a good look at what Drifter’s packing. The sound from the back of his throat is so tasty, Drifter forgives him for a whole three seconds. 

Once the fog settles, though, he grits his teeth to hide a frustrated groan as the kisses turn to bites, hands clutching his knees to avoid clutching the Renegade. Of course the motherfucker would pick now of all times to be horny. He can’t just back out of the match -- he’s way too proud to let the AI handle everything, and he doesn’t want Guardians to grumble about the laziness of the MC. But he sure as hell ain’t gonna tell the Renegade to stop, not when he’s thought about this way too damn much. Maybe a quick fuck is what it’ll take to clear his system after all.

The Renegade pushes Drifter forward until he can squeeze behind him on the couch, so Drifter is only half-sitting on it until he’s pulled back against a solid chest. Wiry arms encase him as clever, confident hands snake under the front of Drifter’s robes. The Renegade rests his chin on Drifter’s shoulder and tells him, “You’re awful quiet.”

“You ain’t done anything special.” Drifter relaxes in his grip, under his fingers, his heels sliding a bit on the floor. He lets the other man peel back layers of cloth and stroke and tease at skin that ain’t been touched by another in so long. The Renegade runs hotter than he does, even through the gloves; Drifter is starting to sweat already. 

“I mean to your players.” And the Renegade resents his comment quite a bit. He pinches Drifter’s nipple and Drifter feels him smile at the sharp gasp he wrangles out of him. “I know how you feel ‘bout me, much as you like to hide it.” 

“Do you?” Drifter shrewdly asks. The hand rubbing his chest is so close to his heart, it’s a miracle the Renegade doesn’t just reach in and tear out the miserable thing. 

The Renegade hums in affirmation. The hand not busy with his pecs slides down the front of Drifter’s pants, then wraps around his hardening cock. He didn’t have to do anything special; the worn softness of his old gloves is enough. “Reckon I do,” the man mumbles. 

_Reckon you don’t. I’ll kill both of us if you do._ Grimly determined, Drifter announces the next match.

  


* * *

  


He does very well for the first half of the game’s initial round, voice steady and measured and sly as always. It’s only when the Renegade drops to his knees in front of him, pulls Drifter’s pants down to his ankles, and takes him in his mouth that things get a little tricky. 

At the same time that his cock is enveloped in that perfect, wet heat, a Guardian from Alpha Team hops through the portal to invade the other side. Drifter, still in control of most of his senses, purrs on cue: “Embrace the Darkness. Take out those Guardians.” 

The Renegade rolls his eyes from the floor to the ceiling, but doesn’t stop sucking. Drifter takes a deep breath through his nose and leans back, confident that if he just keeps his eyes on the screen and focuses on his remaining earpiece, he can last until the game’s over and then go to town on the guy. 

But the round goes on longer than he expected. Alpha switches up their tactics, and the Cabal Drifter coralled into the arena are desperate and meaner than normal, killing Guardians left and right and stalling their progress. If they ain’t getting banged up by Phalanxes, they’re getting shot to pieces by Scorpiuses. He watches as a Guardian dies with fourteen motes in his pocket mere feet away from the bank. Drifter almost feels a little bad. 

What he does feel is a mounting pressure at the base of his cock and the need to do something about it. He makes the mistake of looking down and confirming his suspicions that, oh hell yeah, the Renegade looks real hot with a cock in his mouth: cheeks hollowed out, lips candy apple red, pupils blown and blacker than night. It’s only after swallowing a stuttering moan that Drifter can congratulate the winning team’s first round, his words starting to grow a little husky. 

The Renegade’s eyelashes flutter prettily at the struggle he can hear in Drifter’s tone which gives Drifter a real clear insight to what the guy’s into. The Renegade slowly bobs his head up and down the other man’s cock, taking his sweet time, dark eyes flashing every time Drifter clenches and unclenches his fist to keep steady. 

His traitorous fucker of a friend pulls off to rasp, voice rougher and deeper than his usual drawl, “I can do this all night.” 

Drifter sure as fuck can’t, but he keeps that to himself.

  


* * *

  


“You should bank and summon the Primeval,” Drifter says to a struggling Bravo Team. He does his best to sound encouraging, but it comes off as a complete jerk and/or dirty horndog thanks to the tongue of one Renegade. Alpha’s already got their Primeval out, but Bravo ain’t far behind. He hopes Alpha gets the shutout so he can flip the Renegade on his ass and fuck him ‘til he cries. 

But things are never easy for him, are they? Bravo pulls off a clean invade and sets Alpha back to the beginning with their Primeval, and Drifter swears up a storm off-mic. What would normally be an exciting match for him is just a slow and painful torture. 

The Renegade very helpfully tugs on his wrist and lays Drifter’s hand in his hair, hinting that he’d like to keep it there. Maybe he was thinking that in Drifter’s agitated state, he’d settle for petting the Renegade sweetly, keep him occupied.

Instead Drifter grips his hair and yanks hard, wrestles a startled _mmm!_ out of the guy and snaps, “If this game goes on for much longer --” 

Bravo wins the second round by the skin of their teeth, and Drifter has never been more furious. His only solace is the agitated way the Renegade ruts into his own hand.

  


* * *

  


“Hey, kid,” Drifter whispers desperately into the ear of one of Alpha’s Warlocks, “if you guys win, I’ll triple your payout.” 

He opens a line to Bravo’s lead and says the same. He doesn’t give a shit who wins so long as they do it quick. 

Just as he’s about to swallow his pride and let the Renegade swallow something else, the fucker pulls off and reaches for his ammunition belt. The Drifter almost bites his tongue off in frustration. “What’re you waitin’ for?” 

The Renegade acts like he can’t hear. He finds a travel-sized bottle and tosses it to Drifter, who catches it without blinking, and then stands up to remove his pants. The fire simmering in Drifter’s belly is stoked by the sight of a half-naked Renegade stepping out of his underwear before approaching the couch again. The man climbs into his lap, momentarily obscuring Drifter’s vision of the game by divesting of his top layers and tossing them and his cloak onto the floor with his pants. He keeps the gloves on. “You gonna open me up, or are you just gonna whine?” 

Drifter bristles when the Renegade carelessly plucks his revolver from his belt and tosses it to the floor too. He stares after it, then at the Renegade, and then at a spot somewhere on the floor, mind blank with a numbing horror that he’s -- not -- against the idea of being unarmed with this man. He’s against the idea that he isn’t against the idea. 

The Renegade toys with his necklace, unaware that the little tremors in Drifter’s hands are from fear instead of lust. “So is that --”

Drifter yanks him forward by the jaw and kisses him roughly. He bites his bottom lip and draws blood to shut his smart mouth up, hissing when the Renegade shoves him back against the couch so hard that his skull smacks against the wall. Drifter tugs one of his gloves off with his teeth and coats his fingers with lubricant, his other hand sure to leave bruises on the Renegade’s hip from how hard he’s digging into his skin. 

“Next time we do this,” he growls at the Renegade, whose eyes are almost pitch black by the time Drifter’s fingers slip into him, “you ain’t gonna be smilin’ so big. You’re gonna be beggin’ for mercy.”

“See, you say that,” the Renegade mutters, back arching into a delicious curve when Drifter curls his fingers, “but you ain’t done anything special.” 

The angle, while satisfying, means that Drifter can’t watch the screen _and_ the man squirming in his lap at the same time. The Renegade actually behaves himself by slumping forward to rest his forehead against the top of the couch so Drifter can see around him. But Drifter wants to look at his face, especially when he replaces his hand with his cock and the Renegade bites back a curse.

Drifter closes his eyes for a moment, wondering how bad it would be if he just -- 

An otherworldly screech in his earpiece alerts him that someone’s called up their Primeval. He opens his eyes again quickly, pressing a swift kiss to the Renegade’s flushed cheek and strains to see who it is. Bravo Team. So if they could just hurry it up, he’d --

“Fucking hell,” he groans as Alpha decides to do the smart thing and go ruin their day. It’s early enough in the summoning that killing a Guardian won’t do much to impede their progress, but kill enough and it’ll give Alpha time to catch up. “Invader on the field,” he sighs to one of Bravo’s Hunters, who immediately pulls back and switches to her fusion rifle. 

Drifter tears his eyes away from the screen to his quiet partner who is doing the majority of the work bouncing in the other man’s lap, his fingertips pressed into Drifter’s shoulders for balance. He’s still got his pretty head ducked low and away from view, his shallow panting is driving Drifter wild. 

Bravo’s Hunter gets the kill, and cheerfully high-fives one of her teammates. Drifter would high-five her too if he could. Instead, he wraps him in his arms and feels the Renegade sigh against him, relieved by the attention. He kisses the Renegade, unbothered by the shrieks of Guardians and Taken alike in his earpiece, more concerned with the groan against his lips and the hands cupping his face. 

Beneath the Renegade’s palms his skin burns hot from the proximity to the man’s Light, which has always left a scorching impression on him from the few times they brushed each other in passing. Now he can actually taste it.

He turns his mouth to brush his lips against the Renegade’s knuckles, mostly as a joke. In response to that, or the hard cant of Drifter’s hips against the guy’s ass, the Renegade nearly bites his tongue off to hide a sound. 

Bravo Team melts their Primeval first, but Drifter’s mouth is too busy sucking on the Renegade’s neck to congratulate them. So his pal does him a solid by leaning over into the mic and croaking _You got moves, brother_ in such a good impression of him that Drifter laughs, delirious, light-headed. Fuck. Maybe he'll get the kid to be his substitute for a rainy day. With that thought, and enough blood flowing to his brain, he orders AI to cancel the remaining queues. He thinks it’s time they took a break. 

The Renegade shoves him down onto the couch with dizzying speed and throws his head back, his lips parted in a low moan. Drifter grabs hold of his waist and pounds into him with a desperation and possessiveness he didn’t know he had, eager for another high-pitched whine. But now that the Renegade’s got his undivided attention, Drifter’s learning that the rougher he fucks him, the deeper his growl gets until he’s just rasping for more. At the aggressive rate of their slick bodies colliding into each other, the Renegade’s going to straight up lose his voice. 

They indulge in a kiss that’s more teeth and tongue than soft, bitten lips, but fuck if it ain’t good. It spells the end for Drifter’s tenuous hold on reality but only strengthens his hold on the Renegade, and he comes harder than he’s ever had in his lives. 

The Renegade rides him straight to Hell and keeps going until he’s reached his end, too, and collapses on top of him, spent but satisfied. 

Drifter’s only regret is he doesn’t have a name he can choke on. 

“Pal,” he groans, laying a boneless arm across the Renegade’s sweaty back. “Next time, just… fuckin’...”

“Just fuckin’? Yeah. Agreed.”

**Author's Note:**

> ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ yeehaw and thanks FOB for the title


End file.
